


consumed with what's to transpire

by iwillwalk500miles



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Valhalla, F/F, Pre-Relationship, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Requited Unrequited Love, Spoilers, Yearning, don't read unless you don't mind a bit of all that babe, eivor is an unreliable narrator, for the beginning of the game at least, i've fallen in love with most of the characters in this game rip me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27608309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillwalk500miles/pseuds/iwillwalk500miles
Summary: “Your vision is clear.” Valka levels her with an even look, and Eivor could feel the fight steadily beginning to drain out of her. “You will betray him—you will betray Sigurd.”And there is a moment, an awful, horrible moment, where she thinks,Randvi.Or;Eivor, hiding away after her meeting with Valka and the arrival of her brother Sigurd, broods.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 387





	consumed with what's to transpire

**Author's Note:**

> what's up? time to hyper fixate on another video game!! once again i didn't edit this so if you see a spelling mistake no you didn't
> 
> title is from sex on fire by kings of leon which made me way more emotional than it should have

Eivor doesn’t seem to understand.

It’s not as though she hasn’t tried, not as though she hadn’t forced her mind to tuck away all those feelings—errant thought after errant thought—and yet, despite all of her effort (fiery and forceful and leaving her with throbbing headaches) she can’t seem to _understand._ Once again, it’s not a lack of trying, not a lack of determination—but just a fundamental cut off, a shift in thinking.

Sigurd leaves.

He leaves for so _long_.

Raids are common, easy to wrap her head around, the glory that came with an axe in one hand and a shield in the other as shouts ring across fortresses and camps. Eivor can understand the way that one's blood might sing, the way one's arms might yearn for the ache and impact that came with the hard swings of a weapon. 

It had been two winters since he had been gone, and everyone had missed him dearly.

Perhaps Randvi, most of all.

(The thought is soured, bitter—and logically Eivor knows that it is Sigurd’s father who missed him most, either him or Eivor herself, but she cannot stop it. It is an errant thought, one that must be brushed away with the back of her hand; this is no time to think of Randvi in that manner, no time to think of her with such... negativity.)

She feels as though she may never understand Randvi and Sigurd, their marriage—made of convenience and arranged to prevent war. 

And yet, Randvi must _miss_ him, Randvi must love him, Randvi must—

Eivor breathes, the cold air ringing hollowly in her lungs, a balm to the fiery feeling of _something_ deep in her belly. The chill steadies her, and she folds her arms tighter over her chest, leaning against the back wall of the longhouse. In the rare instances she allows herself to think of this, she makes sure she is alone. Though she has the capability to rival a mountain in her stoicism, the overwhelming warmth that burns in her chest at the thought of this lightens her face far too much.

Nothing got her blood singing quite like battle, but there was a different light to her face when it came to this—and those who paid her attention would notice. They would not fault her for happiness, but they would be curious, and they would watch—and Eivor desired not to be found with softness in her eyes when looking at her brother’s wife.

And yet—

There would be no benefit to thinking of Randvi in this way, she must remind herself, there would be no purpose in even daring to sully the thought of her with this. It is only natural to feel, but it would be wrong to allow it to control her—to shape her path.

She knows that Randvi is devoted to Sigurd, and Eivor knows that she herself is too bound to her brother to betray him in such a way.

But sometimes— _sometimes_ —there is an urge to grasp Randvi by the hands and say it, straight out. Why keep something like this silent? Why let it fester and burn out in her chest when it could be kindled by the both of them, the warmth of love that they could share?

That is impossible. 

There is no point in asking.

Randvi is so lovely.

And—

Randvi is so _cruel_.

She does not realize the depths of it, the impact her words and actions and smile have, but Eivor cannot _stop_ herself from looking into them. It is getting to be an issue, her mind—one that Sigurd had often compared to one of a poets, his teasing truer than either of them had initially realized.

She could see all that she loved in Randvi. She could see the sturdiness of her shoulders, the steadiness in her hands—Eivor could see a glint in her eyes, a cleverness that rivaled all those she’d met in the past, a sharpness to her tongue that Eivor could not help but admire. 

But perhaps it was this most of all—the warmth that lay in the curve of Randvi’s mouth, like sunlight incarnate; a fire lit behind her teeth, a beacon that led to her lips. How Eivor longed to follow it home, to cup her face and press them to her own, to feel that warmth on her face. In the depths of Randvi’s sheer radiance, it is as though flowers may blossom from her stomach and up—climbing up her throat and peeking through her mouth.

 _Do you wish to see me as I see you?_ Eivor wants to ask. _If you were the sun, could I be the tree that basks in your warmth? That grows only to meet you—to feel and taste and love you?_

Perhaps it is not Randvi who is cruel, but Eivor herself; participating in self-hatred each time her eyes are drawn to a light that does not deem her worthy to lay its brightness upon.

Before Sigurd had arrived, Eivor had gone to consult the seer.

Eivor believes that the vision is a cruel one. When she closes her eyes she can still see her brother’s hand in the snow, blood seeping from where it had once lay on his arm as he clutched the stub to his chest; his eyes all white. She can still feel the biting cold, feel the panic and fear as he flies from the peak; his body overtaken by a gigantic wolf who reddened the sky and struck great fear into her heart.

Even as she tells of what she’s seen, she could already feel the whites at the edges of the memories, steadily growing fainter and fainter until all she has is Sigurd’s breathless words and her own panicked ramblings to the seer Valka. 

There is a stern look on Valka’s face, her lips pursed and brows furrowed as she stands, moving away and turning her back to Eivor. It only serves to add to the wariness that she already feels, forcing herself to her feet even after her stomach lurches in protest.

She opens her mouth to explain, and it is not until the end of her speech that Eivor knows that her fears were not unfounded.

“You will betray your brother, Sigurd." Her voice was low, her words a clear warning. "That is the meaning of your vision.” 

“ _No_! No, that cannot be right.” She protests harshly, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, and turning away from the seer. It’s shock that prevents her from thinking her next actions through as he paces. “You are wrong, or you have misunderstood; I would never betray him, my brother—we are bound by _honor_.” 

And to Eivor, that was a thing far stronger than blood.

“The Nornir have spoken.” Valka snaps out, glowering a little at her, as though Eivor daring to tell her what is clearly the truth has personally offended her. “This is their message—you must heed their words, if you ignore them, you may bring an even worse fate upon you both.”

“I will not!” Eivor snarls. “My brother! I would _never_ —”

“Your vision is clear.” Valka levels her with an even look, and Eivor could feel the fight steadily beginning to drain out of her. “You will betray him—you will betray Sigurd.”

And there is a moment, an awful, horrible moment, where she thinks, _Randvi._

“Odin fought against his fate.” Eivor says desperately, because he had and he _did_. If only she were strong enough, if only she _knew_ enough, she could prevent it she could live her days unsullied of this horrible fate until one of them died. “It can be done, I can—”

_Dare she compare herself to the all-father?_

She does not answer her own question, and after shooting Valka another panicked look, she storms helplessly out of the seer’s hut.

Sigurd words still ring in her mind as she mounts her horse, turning sharply away from the building as though if she did not look it did not exist—as though she could force herself into thinking that she just imagined the whole thing.

_There was no other way._

A name had left his mouth so earnestly, clouded over by smoke and frost—a name that she could not remember.

_Our fates are fixed._

No, no she could solve this, she could avoid—

_This was not for you._

She rides back to the village with her heart in her stomach, cold as stone. She would not betray her brother, whether it come to who she loved or what she planned, Sigurd would have her unfaltering loyalty—she would ensure it. Still, she could not shake the overwhelming sense that with a single vision she'd signed up for an unspoken tragedy, and hoped dearly that her fears would not come to pass.

“There you are.” Randvi finds her sitting by the docks, legs swinging up and down as Eivor stares at the water that laps against the ships. 

She looks up, meeting Randvi’s gaze and already feeling softness surface at the sight of her. Eivor feels bewitched, as though someone had grasped her life like a thread and tied it to Randvi’s—giving no thought to how well they would mesh. _Who had woven them together?_ She can’t help but wonder, _who had wronged Randvi so?_

 _“_ Hej, Randvi.” She greets her, and leans back into the palms of her hands, a weak grin on her face. Randvi’s hair, usually braided so orderly, was mussed and messy—as though someone had run their hands through it and not given thought to how it would affect her. Eivor wonders why she hadn’t yet fixed it. “Having fun?”

“Not quite.” But she is smiling, her words not matching with the odd joy on her face. She moves to sit down beside her, her feet following Eivor’s as they swing back and forth under the dock. She moves her hands to her hair, gently beginning to undo her braid as her lips curl. “It seems you feel the same.”

Eivor stares, unsure of what to do with the sight of something so intimate, Randvi undoing her hair right beside her, nimble fingers working slowly—as though she had all the time in the world. “What gave it away?” She asks her quietly.

“The snow in your hair.” She pauses, one hand moving away from her own hair to tug at Eivor’s own braid, shaking loose some of the snow that hadn’t already dissolved. “I thought you’d be overjoyed, with Sigurd home—but it seems you’ve been out here for a while.”

Eivor’s brows furrow, and she looks away sharply, “I am, I have missed him dearly.”

“As have I.” Randvi notes, an eyebrow quirking at Eivor’s tone. “That is not what I was questioning.”

“Forgive me, I don’t mean to be short.” She sighs, her breath leaving her mouth in a visible puff of air. She watches it float away, fading—and wonders if this is what it was like to breath fire. She thinks she’d like to breath fire, if only to make it easier for herself. She turns back to Randvi, smiling teasingly. “I trust you’ve reacquainted yourselves?”

“Mostly—though I think it will be odd, waking up and having him there.” Randvi sighs, finally undoing her braid. Her red hair curls, ever so slightly, and Eivor ignores the urge to reach out and run her fingers through it. “The bed feels... small, all of a sudden, even though it’s more than big enough for two.”

She laughs, and it's a surprisingly honest sound. “Tell me you at least missed it.”

“As much as I can.” She says earnestly. “But I’ve not come here to complain about your brother to you.”

“That was you complaining?” Eivor rose a brow, shooting her a mischievous smirk. “If not here for that, why exactly have you come and found me?”

“You make me worry sometimes, do you know that?” Randvi’s voice was wistful, and she looked away from Eivor to watch the snow fall into the water. “Off you go, plundering and raiding—not a single worry for yourself in sight, it’s as though you know something we don’t—like if you fall you’ll just get back up, and that is that; whether your heart is beating or not.”

“Is that your way of saying I’ll never die?” Eivor asks, her smile melting. “Speaking in riddles doesn’t suit you, Randvi.”

“That’s not it.” She scoffs, pushing Eivor none to gently on the shoulder. “I’d not wish eternal life on anyone.”

“Sounds like a curse.” She agrees, reaching up to rub the place she’d been pushed. It almost sounded like becoming a draugr, what Randvi had described, is that what she had meant? That she feared that she would die before she could kill who’d wronged her, and come back to torment him—dead and decaying and so very angry?

“I know it’s... useless, but do me a favor, won’t you?” Randvi began, turning to face her properly, grasping her hands and leveling her with a stern look.

“Anything.” Eivor agrees immediately, bewitched by the warmth in her palms.

Randvi stares, and though the wind blows hair into her face she does not move from where she sits, gripping her hands with her face so serious. Eivor thinks that she looks beautiful like that, snow falling into her hair even though it dances like fire.

Privately, she compares Randvi to a flame, beautiful and warm; but dangerous to touch.

“Don’t die before I do.”

Eivor blinks, the spell spun in her mind properly broken. She can't help her growing laughter, her mouth stretched wide as she shoots her a disbelieving look. “How very kind of you.”

“I’m quite serious.” Randvi says, but there is a light in her eyes that is unmistakable, warming her face and making her lips twitch upward. “When it is my time, I will tell all who sit at Odin’s table of you, and when you arrive they’ll long since have been singing songs of the wolf-kissed, and they will greet you by name.”

“That’s...” Not something that she would expect. Randvi more often playfully poked fun at Eivor, not this— _never_ this. It would be more than a little cruel to tell her something like this, so bewitched with her as she was, because what had come from her mouth belonged in poems of admiration, songs of dedication. 

What was she thinking, telling Eivor such a thing.

“ _Randvi_.” She rasps, and she doesn’t mean for it to come out as chastising, but it does.

“I’ll not apologize.” Randvi says, her eyes stern, all good humor giving way to an emotion that Eivor had never quite got a proper look at before. It always entered her eyes just before she teased her for doing something impulsive, but it always came and went in flickers—this was different, large and whole and astonishing.

She could only stare for a moment, her wide eyes giving away her shock. Randvi didn’t often do things when the whim took her, she wasn’t like Eivor or even Sigurd sometimes, she was careful—methodical. She thought things out, wringing dry any and all possibilities that came with a decision; it made her clever, but sometimes cold.

This could mean one of two things, Randvi had thought carefully and decided to make the declaration, or she’d momentarily lost the tight grip she had on her composure. She didn’t know which one delighted her more.

“Promise me.” Randvi continued, oblivious to the bubbling emotions warring in Eivor’s chest. “Promise me that you will not die before I do.”

And what a thing that was to ask—the implications of an oath like that made were enough to make her head spin. She could not promise this to her, she could not bow her head and murmur affirmations; for they would be empty, and even worse they may cross lines better off left alone.

“I can’t.” Eivor says, thinking quickly. “Because I want the opposite—Randvi, I beg it of you, die only after me; do not leave me a life without your presence beside me.”

_Oh, well that was too much, wasn’t it?_

Randvi’s face molds into one of shock, and if not for the biting cold perhaps Eivor would have noticed the steady pink rising to her cheeks. “You can’t ask me things I’ve already asked of you.” She protested. “It’s not fair.”

“Too late for that.” Eivor notes, half a smile on her lips. “When my final day comes I’ll do the same thing you wanted to, and perhaps Odin himself will greet you with a clasp on your arm.”

“Must you turn everything on its head?” Randvi let out a shocked laugh. “How difficult you make things, drengr.”

“Am I brave for that?” Eivor asks. “I’ve only taken what you told me and given it back—only it is better, because it’s me who’s given it.”

“Eivor Wolf-kissed?” Randvi rolls her eyes, “No, I think you are Eivor, the Agent of Arrogance.”

“How humorous, if totally untrue.” She grins wide, but then falters. It’s clear that Randvi has chosen this issue to press, if only for the comfort of it. It was unlike her, and that made it all the more important. “If you swear to me,” Eivor decides, “Then I will swear to you.”

“You would make us both oathbreakers, in a sense.” Randvi says with a frown.

A challenge. “Perhaps I would.”

“Then I swear it, Eivor Wolf-Kissed.” She grips Eivor’s hands, leaning forward and trying to convey utmost seriousness in her gaze “I swear to you if you swear to me.”

“How cruel you are.” Eivor notes with a small frown, her brows furrowed. She had no choice now, she could not go back on her word. “Then I swear as well.”

“Good.” Randvi drops her hands, leaning back and sighing in relief. It is an odd thing to see her like this, almost relaxed in the face of the bitter wind as it blows her hair into a frizzy mess.

“Is it?” Eivor asks her, drawing a knee to her chest and leaning on it, allowing herself just this moment to stare unabashedly.

“Yes.”

Eivor smiles. “We may have both been damned.”

“Perhaps.” Randvi admits, closing her eyes. “But more than that, we are tied tighter together.”

She falters, something in her chest fluttering in an odd sort of pain.

It's hard to remember that such things mean little to Randvi when they mean great things to Eivor. Everything was beginning to become so exhausting, to the point where Eivor couldn't quite remember the last time she hadn't been so tired. Would it be better to simply avoid her as much as possible? The jarl often sent Eivor to do things, whether it be raiding or hunting—so she _could_ keep busy, if she really wanted to. Combined with that and Randvi's own duties, it was a miracle they had any real time together at all, and with Sigurd back the time that Eivor had accidentally monopolized would be redirected toward him anyway.

 _How I weep at the mere thought of it_ , Eivor thinks—her eyes stinging. 

No. Perhaps it wouldn't be worth it, the world seemed determined to separate them as much as possible anyhow, so any time Randvi could find for her would be cherished.

“Do I mean so much?” Eivor asks after a moment, and does not know if she'd rather Randvi say yes or no. She goes still, her body frozen until Randvi could answer, until she could melt the ice that had encased her.

_Strange that someone with eyes of glaciers could have the hair of an open flame, and the spirit of one too._

“You are very dear to me, Eivor.” She says finally, carefully cracking open a single eye to study her before shutting it closed again.

“I... thank you.” Eivor says, caught off guard and tongue tied because of it. “You are dear to me as well.”

“Obviously.” Randvi waves her away.

A smile curves her lips. “Now who’s the ‘Agent of Arrogance’?”

“Still you.”

“Haha.” Eivor laughs mockingly, and lays defeatedly back onto the docks. She’s almost surprised that no one has stumbled across them yet. Sure, everyone was busy drinking and feasting to celebrate Sigurd’s return, but by now she would have expected more than one fishermen to stumble toward the docks drunk.

Randvi moves over towards her, poking at the hard line of Eivor’s brow. “You’ve had that wrinkle in your brow for hours now, it seems; did your meeting with Valka end in tears? I never would have told you she sought you out if I knew you would come out brooding because of it.”

That's all it takes for any semblance of a good mood to drain from her body, her shoulders stiffening and her jaw clenching as she forces herself not to react rashly. Eivor closes her eyes, voice dropping into a mumble. “Why do you assume it is the seer that causes my frown? For all you know, I’ve just dropped my favorite axe in the water.”

She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know that Randvi is raising an eyebrow. “Have you?”

“I certainly dropped something.” She quips, and warms when she hears Randvi’s laugh. When she opens her eyes again, she doesn’t know if she’s disappointed or not to see that Randvi is braiding back her hair. It had been quite nice to see so loose, but it's a relief to see that the moment of intimacy between them is soon to end.

A calm silence passes, Eivor forcing herself not to stare as she narrows her eyes toward the sky. It was cold, far too cold to be laying about on the dock and allowing the snow to fall onto her unobstructed, but Eivor was tired—and she’d passed out drunk in worse places. 

Randvi breaks the calm with a question. “Do you... do you suppose that Sigurd means to return to England soon?”

Once again, something in her chest flutters about, rattling her rib-cage and smacking harshly against her lungs. “Worry not, you will have your husband as long as you need him.”

“That’s not—” Randvi cut herself off shortly, and it’s noticeable enough for Eivor to steal a glance at her. A frown pulls at her lips. “I know he will leave soon, I just... Do you suppose he means to take you with him?”

She blinks a bit dumbly, unsure to answer. “If he asks, I will follow.”

“Anyone can see that.” Randvi notes absently, looking away.

“Anyone?” Eivor asks her, turning on her side and propping herself up a little. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but she doesn’t really mind since she gets a better view of Randvi.

“Anyone.” Randvi confirms with a nod, her mouth pulling down into her frown, still not meeting Eivor's gaze.

“It appears the idea puts you in good spirits.” Eivor says, her voice sarcastic. “What is the matter?”

“I will not answer unless you do, seeing as I _did_ ask first.”

“More like demanded it.” Eivor snorts, amusement clear in her face. “Well, what kind of monster would I be to refuse a request from someone so _lovely_?”

She shoots her a look, finishing her braid and then crossing her arms over her chest. The perfect picture of disapproval, her Randvi. “Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

“Of course not.” She waves away her words absently in the way she knows will absolutely infuriate her, “It is in fact _cherished._ ”

“How thick headed must you be to believe such a thing?” Randvi asks her, staring at her accusingly.

Eivor pretends to think about it for a moment, humming as though she's deeply pondering her answer. “Enough that my skull serves as a battering ram," She decided with a broad grin, "only then will I ever be satisfied.”

“You're always thinking of battle, aren’t you?” Randvi asks, looking partly amused but still rather annoyed. Eivor thinks she looks rather lovely like that, with the kind of playful disapproval that didn’t mean much except, _look at her go say something stupid again, my Eivor._

“It is my duty, and I perform it well.” She says, for a moment deadly serious.

Randvi goes quiet, nodding to herself as she sighs and looks away. “That you most certainly do.”

A calm settles over them both, and Eivor leans back against the dock to once again face the sky, her legs still dangling over the water as she opens her mouth and blows hot air so it looks like smoke fleeing from the mouth of a dragon. It does little to warm her, but it passes the time, and Randvi gives her such a warm smile when she catches her.

It’s nice, Eivor learns, just sitting with her like that; not having to worry about being too distant or too close, being able to just bask in her presence.

How damned must she be, to crave only Randvi’s company above all else?

“Do you really wish to know what Valka told me?” Eivor breaks the silence, turning her head to look at Randvi, kicking her legs out partly to warm them and partly to release a bit of nervous energy.

“Only anything you would like to share.” She says quietly, and to Eivor’s surprise moves to lay beside her. They lay with a good deal of space between them, so that if someone would stumble across them the most they would think was good friends. Still, the small act of intimacy sets Eivor’s nerves alight, and for a moment she almost forgets to respond.

“I would like to share nothing.” She manages out, a bit weakly. “But, if it’s for you, well... I suppose I could be persuaded.”

“You are far too easy.” Randvi notes with an almost satisfied smile. “One of these days, someone with eyes just as lovely as the sea will convince you to run around the village bare.”

“Hytham has lovely eyes.” Eivor says, only because Hytham's _are_ lovely and also because it is something to say other than _I think your eyes resemble the sky more than the sea._

She snorts. “No yearning in my presence, please.”

“If that pleases the lady.” Eivor says, despite knowing it was quite impossible not to want for someone in Randvi’s company.

“It does.” She nods importantly, playing up the 'dignified' aspect of her own personality.

Eivor snorts, reaching over and flicking her shoulder. “Anything for your highness.”

“I’m sure that’s treason.”

They stare at each other for a moment, silent—before dissolving into loud laughter.

“Randvi.” She asks when they finally manage to get a grip on themselves. “What do you think will become of me?”

“The death of a warrior and a fine seat at Odin’s table.” She doesn't hesitate, a thoughtful glint in her eye. “Though, with your luck you’d die because you tripped onto an enemy's axe.”

Eivor purses her lips, ignoring that last bit. “Valka says the gods favor me.”

“Not much a surprise there, _wolf-kissed_.” Her words teasing, but her eyes were suddenly shadowed with concern, as though she sensed that Eivor would not be laughing alongside her. “You _do_ have a raven, the all-father must look favorably upon you.”

“Perhaps he has poor judgement.” Eivor says quietly, thinking back to the vision; remembering what the shade of her brother had told her. “Odin believed fate could be avoided... and now I follow in his footsteps.”

“You are... pessimistic, on this day.” Randvi says, and there is no hiding the worried furrow of her brow. “What has Valka shown you, beloved.”

The term of endearment slips from her mouth as easily as water, so natural that if not for the slight panic on Randvi’s face she might have believed she imagined it. It was an accident but still, Eivor couldn’t quite help the warmth that pulled in her belly after hearing it.

Randvi opens her mouth, as though she might apologize, but Eivor opens hers quicker.

“Do not call me beloved—I will only grow that much more arrogant if I believe I hold your affection.” She says teasingly, hoping to soothe Randvi’s nerves and brush the whole thing away. It would not do to dwell on what would only lead to heartbreak.

“You—” A rueful smile bursts from Randvi’s face. “Did you not hear me? You _are_ dear to me, Eivor.” She falters, her voice now a whisper. “A true friend.”

“And for that, I am thankful.” Eivor says, and it is the truth.

“Is this about Kjotve?” She asks her quietly, brow furrowing. “Are you unsure what will happen once he meets his end?”

She blinks stupidly, opening her mouth and closing it again. She didn’t know how to respond to that, the fact that Randvi had brought up a very real concern that Eivor had not been thinking of at that moment, one that she pleasured in not thinking of.

In truth, she didn’t know what would happen after, all she knew was that it was important that she get there or die trying.

“What will become of you once he is dead.” Randvi says, snapping her fingers in front of Eivor’s face to regain her attention. “Is that what you wish to know?”

“Randvi.” Eivor begins, but Randvi continues over her.

“Jarl Styrbjorn believes all but empty, surviving only on your blood lust.” Her voice is unusually soft, one brush away from tenderness and it _hurts._ “I know that is not true, no matter how much you claim to want nothing but his death.”

She allows her eyes to flutter closed, perhaps if she did not look into her eyes Randvi would fade from the sense, perhaps she would remember her place, and forget her desires. “I will not become anything else before I become his killer.”

“Not on purpose, certainly.” Randvi says. “But you are young, and you will be young when he falls by your hand—plenty of time to take up new things afterward.”

“Oh?” Eivor can’t help her snort, opening her eyes and pausing in the wake of the warmth in the pale blue eyes across from her. “Like what?”

“Basket weaving? Or perhaps ship-building? You spend enough time on them.” There was something in her words there that Eivor didn’t want to think about, the subtle sound of a useless longing that she forced herself to forget. “Or maybe your fate lies in song—you have a poet’s heart, after all.”

“A poet’s heart?” Eivor asks her quietly, unused to such an observation. Sigurd complimented her quick wit all the time, but it was another thing to receive such a gift from Randvi.

“Yes.” Randvi’s cheeks creased with her smile, wide and astonishingly _happy._ So full of joy it all but stopped her heart in its tracks, spluttering and skipping over itself. “It’s quite large, so warm steam seeps from your furs and melts your armor—it must sear all who dare to touch it.”

It consumes her, and for just a moment, Eivor allows herself to answer as though she is the one that Randvi loves, as though she is the one that can grip her hand in the cold of the winter and warm it by lifting it to her mouth and warming it with soft breaths. “If I am of a poet’s heart,” She says, and it’s the softest she thinks she’s ever sounded, “you are of a poet’s mind.”

Randvi stares, and color creeps in her cheeks. “Two halves of a whole.”

“Yes.” Eivor breathes, thinking of how cruel Randvi didn’t realize she was being. “Two halves of a whole.”

**Author's Note:**

> my eivor: i love randvi, but i shall not dare to desire her until she is free to desire me the same
> 
> canon!eivor: get cucked bro
> 
> anyway, there's something about eivor that feels especially sensitive to me, like no matter who you play them as eivor always has this sort of... gentleness about them in their voice when talking to people they care for (sigurd, randvi, ect.) not to mention eivor is compared to a poet a whole lot. i really like my interpretation of their character, and of randvi's too - and i'm not super duper far in the game so i don't know if this is gonna bite me in the ass but i really like sigurd's character too, flighty and a bit reckless as he is


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